


strands of memory

by cervine_salad



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Anal Sex, Canon-Typical Violence, Consensual Sex, Dorks in Love, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Love, M/M, Married Couple, Married Sex, Masturbation, Minor Violence, Non-Graphic Violence, Past Violence, Threats of Violence, Trans Character, Trans Keith (Voltron), Trans Male Character, Trans Male Keith (Voltron), Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:09:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22047661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cervine_salad/pseuds/cervine_salad
Summary: Keith cuts his hair after a tough battle. It's more personal than he anticipated. He and Shiro have some Quality Time TM in the form of bathroom sex.Keith is implied trans, with mostly male-anatomy language. Explicit anal.
Relationships: Keith & Shiro (Voltron), Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 120





	strands of memory

“Just do it.” Keith’s voice crackles with emotion, more than usual. He doesn’t look up at Shiro, only at the tiled floor of the bathroom, sitting with crossed legs as if he’s meditating.

Shiro leans over him from behind, a thick swath of dark shining hair laid across his palm, preemptive and nearly sacred in the way the other hand holds the buzzing shaver tool.

“Are you sure?”

There’s a large cutout already missing from behind the crown of Keith’s head, chopped ragged and still glittering at the edges with residual quintessence. The hair smells amazing. Keith’s sadness radiates like heat.

“Yes.” Keith grits his teeth against ridiculous, stupid tears gathering on his eyelashes. “Let’s just get this over with.”

It was a defective Galra general -- a man nobody had liked in the first place, but had given a second chance after the war had ended -- who had seized a handful of Keith’s hair and dragged him backward, holding a laser pistol to his head. It had happened so fast, during a routine check on the outpost, that in the blink of an eye one might have missed it just passing through the base. But the general in question had wanted to make a show of it. He’d always hated Keith, and it showed. He hated his beauty, his strength, the constant support of the other Galra who had abandoned Zarkon’s conquests in favor of peace. And above all, he’d hated that Keith was in love, and with another man who’d helped to dismantle the former regime in equal measure.

“Humans are not fit to rule the Galra,” he’d snarled as Keith struggled in his grasp. The Marmorans had leveled their weapons, hesitating to strike; they could easily hit their leader instead. 

“Keith is Galra,” one of the Blades had barked. “And even his half-human birthright outranks you!”

“Release him at once,” Kolivan’s voice rang out, clear and deep as an old bell. “The consequences will already be dire, Mortuk. No army will support your insurgence.” 

“You are ruled by a weak-blooded vixen. A human’s whore, hardly even Galra! See how he squirms. Nothing but a fragile flower, a painted worm.” Mortuk looked as if he might spit as he gripped Keith’s hair tighter, holding both of the Blade leader’s arms behind his back in one giant clawed hand. Mortuk was nine feet tall, broad-shouldered, armed to the teeth at all times and covered in armor. There was little Keith was going to be able to do in his current position, especially unarmed. Why had he trusted this one? He’d come here with nothing but his mother’s knife, and that had been kicked away in the scuffle.

“I will kill you, if this is what you choose,” Kolivan responded, as cool as ever as he raised his blade. “The Galra will live another ten thousand years, without you here to lead them. And perhaps that is for the best.”

It seemed to strike a chord with Mortuk. Generations of Galra would continue on. The Universe always continued on, and people survived and fought and died with little lasting emphasis on whether they were human or Galra, or both.

But Keith wasn’t trying to wait the situation out; his mind was forever moving in the next right direction, several steps ahead of whomever he faced, and his next move was now. In the kind of fluid motion he was known for, one slender leg struck out to his side, his foot finding purchase on the wall. The other Blades had seen it coming; they scattered and leapt for handholds in the floor and doorways and anything nailed down. Keith’s boot connected with airlock pad, and his other leg followed the first as he used the momentum to run a swift circle up the wall.

“Stupid human,” Mortuk managed to growl. “You’ve signed your own death warrant, too.”

The airlock groaned open, the massive doors parting to expose the room to open space that sucked the air from the room and tore savagely at anything not bolted to the floor. Both the hulking Galra general and his captive began to slide backward, then lost their footing as the artificial gravity released. 

Krolia had come, and with impeccable timing as she always did; her hand was around Keith’s ankle, her arm straining to hold onto both the weight of her son and the giant that held onto him.

“Keith!” she yelled over the blaring alarms of stabilizers failing. The word was garbled; she had the knife in her teeth, and with a cry of exertion Keith reached for it.

It was pointless to try to hack away at Mortuk’s armor, hoping he would let go; there was little time for that. He could see Kolivan clinging to a railing near the airlock switch, ready to hit it again at a second’s notice.

There was no other choice. It should have been easier than it was to come to the conclusion he needed.

Keith felt the familiar shape of the knife hilt in his hand, the familiar burst of energy and glittering quintessence that sparked from the blade as it changed. The beautiful luxite surface exploded in light and energy, expanded, forming the jagged sword that would activate only for Keith and his mother. But he didn’t have time to relish in the magic of it this time. He swung it in a wide arc, behind his shoulder, and the purple-white light followed the sweep of his arm like a butterfly wing.

The blade sliced through his long hair, through the loose braid that reached almost to his waist, and Mortuk had no other hold on him; the huge Galra man screamed, clutching at a handful of braid, teeth bared and yellow eyes wide with fear as he hurtled out into the black, star-pricked void beyond the airlock. 

Kolivan slammed the glowing pad on the wall, and the airlock doors shut with a kind of macabre finality that Keith had never gotten used to. The room was no longer a vacuum; they all floated and bobbed around the room while the gravity generator restarted, and then all fell hard to the floor when it did.  
Keith and Krolia hit the grated metal floor together, her grip still on his ankle. She still hadn’t let go. He looked down at her, trying to smile.

“Thanks, Mom,” he murmured. 

“Are you all right?” Her face was pained.

“I’m fine.” He helped her to her feet as he stood. “This is going to be tough to report to Lotor. Mortuk was the last one standing on this border with the Phelurians, and it’s barely holding as is.” Keith sighed, straightened his back with a wince. 

“Keith, don’t take what he said to heart.” Krolia was perceptive as ever. When she looked at him, she could tell. Mortuk had wanted to disparage Keith’s heart, not just his blood. He called Keith a weakling not because of how he fought, but because of how -- and who -- he loved.

“I’m not,” Keith lied. His expression darkened as he reached back to smooth a hand over the back of his head, accustomed to feeling the firm pleat of a braid or the gentle flow of waves like a dark ocean. Instead, there was a ragged mess, what felt like a bird’s nest abandoned.

It felt worse than what it should. Hair has no nerve endings. But for some reason, he thought the ends felt raw.

A warm tear streaks down Keith’s cheek, and he doesn’t wipe it away. It lands on the floor and shines in the bluish light of the Altean bathing room. 

“Okay,” Shiro huffs. “I’m doing it.”

Why is this so sad? Keith wonders to himself. It’s just hair. It will grow back. But it’s more than hair, and he knows that, even if he can’t or won’t say it aloud. Shiro knows, Shiro understands how big this is, how Keith hasn’t cut his hair since his father died and kept it growing even through all their years with Voltron and the Coalition and the war. It grew while Shiro was missing, while Keith tirelessly searched for him throughout the Universe. It grew when Keith trained with the Blades, when he was reunited with Krolia, when he rescued Romelle and brought down the Colony, when he fought Lotor, when he fought Haggar. Then the long years of peace, and watching Lance and Allura marry and have their children, and then finally, when his braid was almost to his ass, marrying his best friend. Finally. He and Shiro were married on a hilltop overlooking a field of alien flowers. It was perfect. He’d let his hair hang loose in the wind and when they’d kissed for the first time as partners, Shiro’s fingers were in it and they were so warm and it was heaven.

Shiro holds Keith’s neck in one hand, the other drawing the vibrating clipper blade up the back of Keith’s nape. Keith had told him, half-joking, to try to recreate Shiro’s undercut from when they first met. It wouldn’t be exactly the same, though. Keith had fine features, finer than even Shiro had had in his youth, and the way Keith’s waves framed his face was too beautiful for Shiro to take a blade to.

“He said I’m a human’s whore.” Keith’s voice comes up from somewhere deep, like a still pond in a cave. 

Shiro pauses, but only for a moment. He drags the clippers in smooth stripes from nape to occipital bone, with particular gentleness behind Keith’s ear. 

“I assume that’s just how the older generation of Galra men are,” Shiro responds, his flesh fingertips lingering affectionately on the fresh peach fuzz. “Zarkon only valued pureblood lineage, by the time we knew him. I’d imagine many of the Galra have been convinced that they’re a dying race, so procreation is one of the pillars of their ideology.” 

“Right.” Keith frowns. “So, basically, they’re thinking exactly like a lot of humans used to think. And not only does my human blood disqualify me from being respected as a leader, but so does the fact that I’m not procreating the next Galra army. For somebody who doesn’t like humans, he thought a lot like the less-evolved ones.”

“The irony isn’t lost on me,” Shiro murmurs, good-natured. He combs his fingers through the short strands of hair that decorate Keith’s crown. “Besides, Keith, I’d hardly call you my whore -- I made an honest man out of you, with the ring. Doesn’t that count for something?”

Keith can’t help himself; he busts out laughing, hunched over on the floor between his husband’s legs, his back trembling. “You’re awful.”

Shiro turns off the clippers, sets them on the stone vanity. “Anyway,” he says smoothly, rubbing Keith’s back in slow circles, “since when do you, of all people, care what anybody thinks of you?”

“It’s not what he thought of me.” Keith sighs, and Shiro steps around him to look down into his face. “It’s how he disrespected you.”

“Me?”

“Talking like being human makes someone garbage. Makes you weak. And being your partner is like a mark of shame among the Galra.” Keith’s bright gaze flickers up to meet his husband’s, and Shiro doesn’t know why he’s always struck by the beauty of those eyes, like he’s forever seeing them for the first time. “I’m not ashamed. In fact, I’m proud of it. I’m proud to be loved by you. I wanted your love from the day I met you.”

“When you stole my car?”

“No. Even before that.” 

Shiro grins and holds out his hand, and Keith takes it, feeling the warmth and faint energetic resonance of the prosthetic as Shiro pulls him to his feet. 

“Keith, I know you’re not ashamed of me.” Shiro tugs him closer, folds him in his big arms. “You don’t even have to wonder if that’s what I would think.”

“I know you know. I’m just saying--” He pulls away, slightly, just to look his husband square in the face. “I’m not afraid to punish anyone who disrespects you.”

Shiro clears his throat. “Honey, he did try to kill you.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s reason enough to kill him. You didn’t need to do it for me.” He laughs, and as if on instinct, one of his big hands ruffles Keith’s newly trimmed locks. Keith leans into it, nearly purring, like a dangerous animal who deigns to love his tamer.

“Does it look bad?” Keith asks, almost a whisper. The reality of the haircut is setting in, now, with the pleasant air of the Altean palace tickling the back of his neck where normally he’d never feel a breeze.

“Not in the least.” Shiro leans in to kiss his face, all over it, the way he knows will make Keith smile. 

“So you don’t hate it?” Keith does smile, a little, but his eyes are still searching Shiro’s face for reassurance. He hasn’t even turned to the mirror to look at it yet. He isn’t vain. He just doesn’t want to be different. He doesn’t want to be someone new to Shiro. He doesn’t want to cease to be the person Takashi Shirogane married.

“Do you want the truth?” Shiro says, and Keith knows the sass is coming by his tone. “Yes, I’m secretly repulsed, to a degree I’ve never felt before, about anyone. What will I do anymore, forced to continue to sleep beside this h--?”

Keith captures his mouth with a growl, all full lips and snarling teeth and probing tongue like the half-Galra he is, and Shiro melts into it with a faint sound of pleasure. His hands find their familiar grip on Keith’s slender hips, the bones like diamonds under his glowing skin, and Keith leans into him with a moan. It’s the cue Shiro knows how to take; he slides his hands up under Keith’s firm glutes and lifts him up onto the marble vanity, the younger man’s legs parting to cradle him close.

Shiro licks the soft seam of Keith’s lips until they open for him again, this time wide and wanting to welcome Shiro’s exploration of the inside of his cheeks. His tongue has been here, his fingers have been here, his cock has been here -- but every time he dances with the wet heat of Keith’s mouth, it’s like the first time. He thumbs Keith’s bottom lip with the warm prosthetic, and the slight buzz it emanates makes Keith’s belly backflip with excitement.

“Keith,” Shiro whispers, taking his face gently between his hands, watching his eyes shine and his wet lips glisten. “I love you. You will always, always be beautiful to me.” He traces Keith’s scar, the gnarled red line from his jaw to the inner corner of his eye, and brushes away the murky black ripples of hair from his face. He will never tire of this face.

“I love you,” Keith answers him, his arms around Shiro’s neck, their chests pressed up close against the other’s, enough for their hearts to beat against one another. “Now let me be your whore, Admiral Shirogane.”

Shiro’s face flushes even deeper at that. 

Keith wriggles out of his bodysuit, kicks off the thong underneath until everything lies on the cool tile floor. Shiro has long since shed his uniform, down to his slacks and a white undershirt; both of those go. Keith pulls him in for more kisses, rubbing the growing bulge in his husband’s briefs until he can run a cupped hand up and down the firm silhouette of his swollen cock. The flushed head pushes against the waistband of the fabric, and Keith feels like he takes pity on the poor big boy when he frees it from the elastic; he shucks Shiro’s underwear off his hips to let them slide to his ankles, and even his husband’s simple sigh of relief is like someone ringing the dinner bell for Keith’s senses.

He takes the flushed length in both his hands, feeling the weight of it, the soft skin of the mushroomed head like rose petals. His balls hang red and heavy behind his dick, looking sweeter than two generous scoops of ice cream, and Keith groans just rubbing the sensitive tip with his fingertips and watching pre-cum pearl at the tiny opening.

“Fuck,” Shiro grunts, bracing his hands on the edge of the vanity on either side of Keith’s hips, watching his dick massaged and passed between Keith’s deft hands. Hands that could bring death to anyone who stood against him, but could also bring such tender pleasure it could have Shiro weeping and begging for it.

He fucks Keith’s ass on the cold marble, his cock drenched in viscous blue lubricant that makes Keith shiver with tingling pleasure from his hole to his navel. Keith leans back on his elbows, the back of his head against the mirror, his legs spread and his feet planted one on each of Shiro’s flushed pectorals. His toes graze the man’s sensitive nipples, toying with them expertly, a little sly grin splitting his features; Shiro can’t help the speed at which he feels himself tumbling toward the edge, but he tries desperately to make it last. His nipples are his weakness, and Keith knows it, and it doesn’t help that Keith has those adorable, agile little feet and those cute toes that have rubbed his cock to orgasm more than once in their marriage.

“Baby,” Keith gasps, bracing the arches of his feet harder against Shiro’s chest. “Baby, it’s so good. You’re so deep… Please, please, don’t stop.”

Good thing Shiro had no intention to stop, and still doesn’t. He rocks into Keith’s ass with a renewed recklessness, like he’s been given a checkered flag for a final lap. He knows he’s going to finish, but he’s going to finish right.

“Come here,” he grunts, and his big cock pops out of Keith’s hole with a wet squelch. Keith doesn’t understand, at first, and makes a noise of disappointment; but he gets it, soon enough, when Shiro tugs him to the floor and turns him around. Keith likes when he gets a little rough. After all, he wants to be whored.

Shiro presses him into the marble, gets his flesh hand around the back of Keith’s neck and squeezes. Minus the thick black hair that used to hang there, it’s easy now to take his nape in one hand and force his head down -- gently, really, but with enough firmness to make Keith moan when he does it. Shiro guides himself back inside Keith’s fluttering hole, the tight ring of muscle sucking on him insistently, threatening to make him blow his load early.

“Touch yourself for me,” Shiro says, his voice graveled and husky. He pinches Keith’s nape to signal him to look up at himself in the mirror, to take in the image of himself pressed against the vanity with his husband thrusting into him from behind. Keith obeys, relenting like a wild tiger who’s fallen for his master; he watches Shiro’s abdominal muscles clench and flex, he watches those powerful hips and thighs move as his husband uses his ass. Keith remembers what Shiro asked of him and reaches down between his legs to fondle his own cock, rubbing the little knob fast and wet, and the look on his own face is enough to get both holes clenching and throbbing with building pleasure. He chances a finger inside his little pink hole, fluttering and crying out to him from its current neglect, and he alternates rubbing his little cock and rubbing that electric place just inside the pink that drives him wild. In the wide mirror before him, he watches his own eyes roll back in blinding pleasure at the feeling of Shiro’s dick prodding his ass, can feel the insertion deep in his belly with his fingers on the other side of those wet, pink walls.

“Shiro,” he moans, ragged, and Shiro’s response is a groan from deep in his chest as he flushes deeper. He’s close. 

“Baby, you’re so beautiful.” Shiro can barely speak, but he gets it out. His hips make that satisfying smack, smack, smack against Keith’s ass, the force and friction delectable. “Sweet baby boy. You’re so sexy. Cum for me, baby. Cum for me, you little whore.”

“Yes, sir,” Keith rasps, watching his own lips form the words, watching Shiro’s pace change as he starts to release. Shiro can never last long when he talks to him like that. “Yes, sir, yes, sir!” It’s like he’s on loop, saying it over and over like a prayer until his breath hitches and he can’t breathe or speak or see and he’s tumbling over that sweet threshold of deep pleasure. His whole body releases; he feels his ass gape, then draw shut like a trap, squeezing Shiro’s cock like a vise. Shiro grips his hips and fucks him until he’s damn near weeping. Both of them, now, moaning and trembling, staring themselves in the face. Keith hardly notices his hair is so short. He only sees Shiro slumped over him from behind, kissing his shoulder, kissing the soft nape of his neck with wet lips. Tender kisses, new and tantalizing and soft in a place where he’s never felt those kisses before. 

He doesn’t care that his hair is buzzed off at the back, he doesn’t care that it’s a mess. He finds his husband’s hand planted on the vanity beside him and holds it.


End file.
